Deaf noise clogged his ears, leaving the bewildered Simon to hear only his heartbeat. Searing pain was performing a whistle stop tour through all regions of his head as he reached out and felt nothing but fabric and claustrophobia. He was living Jonah. His frantic fingers clawed at his prison. Arachnofiber. One of the most impervious materials invented by man. The statistics flew through his brain. Any object placed within such a bag was guaranteed to withstand bullets, bomb blasts and even corrosive acids: perfect for the VirCorp company picnic. The inventors, however, had never considered Lawrence’s precarious situation—one that could be resolved by a cool head and sharp objects.
Knowing full well that he had but a few breaths of air left, Lawrence clutched his chest, then patted down his janitorial vestments for the right pocket. He felt the bulge and yelped for joy—a yelp that only increased his sense of panic as he sucked in a mouthful of body bag. Curling his fingers around the object, he quickly withdrew his trusty pocketknife. He carefully pointed the blade away from himself, remembering an accident he once had in a bar brawl with a biker named Bloodthirsty Brutus. Taking one last deep breath, he thrust out against his captor with the knife, managing to puncture it.
Before Lawrence was able to widen the puncture, his world was turned upside down. A great engine roared as he was lifted and then dropped from what felt like tremendous height. The impact was soft and, from the smell, he could deduce only one thing: he was in a garbage truck. It had come to collect its cargo. If he did not free himself and jump the gate before it closed he would be incinerated!
His voice failed and he fought to widen the puncture with all his being. He paused, petrified, soaked in a fine cold sweat. He envisioned his fiery grave. Would he scream? Hell yes, he would! Running out of options, he began stabbing and hacking randomly. He cried like a little boy getting his first immunization. Cried for Mommy, God, Salvation, until at last he was out of the bag and the mass of used medical supplies. He paused only when he struck the metal of the truck, scraping his hand against the weld points. He opened his eyes and glanced up, the hatch was closing. Attempting a move he once saw in a Jackie Chan film, he vaulted off the side of the truck and out into the alley, landing awkwardly on his ankle. He howled in pain, then victory as he fell backwards landing on his back. The truck roared into the distance as his vision cleared through the departing smoke.
He pumped his fist in the air and whooped with joy in his heart. “That’s right! No Simon flambé for you!” He collapsed in hysterics, rubbing his ankle until the pain began to subside. He shook the images of fire from his head and wiped the sweat off his furrowed brow.
Betrayed. That’s how he felt. They dangle a little corporate advancement in front of you, you take the bait and then they try to murder you. How sweet it is, he sighed. He huffed and got to his feet, testing the soreness. A little tinge of pain here and there, but with a couple of painkillers he would be OK. If he had his way, certain German doctors would soon not be.
Using the alley wall for support, Lawrence proceeded carefully into the open air. The complex lighting cast sharp grasping shadows over the road ahead. What if they found out they hadn’t finished the job—that he was still alive? Surely he would be hunted like a dog. Every random ambient noise struck fear in his quivering heart. Running on survival fumes, he locked the blade of his pocketknife in place and held it out like a fencing master.
A twig snapped. Simon let out a high-pitched shriek, closed his eyes and struck out randomly in all directions with the knife. To a surveillance camera, he would have looked like he was swashbuckling a swarm of bees. Panting, he opened his eyes and saw he was alone. Lawrence took a lungful of air and fled.
